“My dear sir!” exclaimed the man who fell with me, and I found the Rev. Luther Meeker sitting on a crumpled mat and propped up with his arms behind him, while his pith helmet went dancing away on its rim to settle crazily upon its crown a dozen feet from us.

For an instant I was tempted to attack him, when I realized that his presence on the stairs and his interruption of my pursuit of the redheaded man were significant of more than an accident, and that Meeker and the other were spying upon me.  I bridled my ire, and decided to play the game out with them and fathom the mystery of their espionage.

“My dear sir, I am almost certain that I have sprained my back—­I am sure I have injured my back!”

“I am sorry for your back,” I said, getting to my feet.  “For my part, I am satisfied to escape without a broken neck.”

“My immortal soul, if it isn’t Mr. Trenholm!” said he, blinking at me, his goggles bobbing on a rubber string made fast to a jacket-button.  “Of all persons, Mr. Trenholm!  Bless my soul!”

My mental remark was somewhat similar and with equal fervour, if not complimentary to him and his soul.  Brushing my soiled ducks, I started to move away, for it would never do to assume an excess of friendship too suddenly.

“Just one moment, Mr. Trenholm—­” he called after me, shaking a bony forefinger—­“just one moment, I beg of you, sir!  I have some information which I desire to impart, and, strangely enough, I was seeking you when this unfortunate tumble came about, partly through my infirmities, I am sure.  One moment, sir.  It is to your advantage to wait, I assure you.”

“What is it?” I asked, hesitating.  The little beggar had undoubtedly escaped, and I knew that in Meeker I had bigger game if I handled him cautiously.

“The Kut Sang!” he said, arising with difficulty and holding his back with one hand while he hobbled after his helmet.

I was convinced that his injury and decrepit bearing were clever bits of acting.

“I desire to correct you regarding the Kut Sang” he cackled, caressing the recovered helmet.

“What about it?  My dear Mr. Meeker, I am in a hurry and cannot waste the day waiting for you to talk.  I am sorry for what has happened here, but I trust that you are not incapacitated.  Anyway, I do not think there is anything you can tell me about the Kut Sang that I do not already know.”

“Oh, but there is,” he protested, holding up his hand and eyeing me craftily.  “I was seeking you to tell you when we fell upon each other so unceremoniously.  It is quite—­”

“I suppose you want to tell me that the sailing has been delayed.  I know all about that—­she sails in the morning.”

“Sails in the morning!” he exclaimed, pretending surprise, but being puzzled about something.  “Does she?”

There was guile in that last question, and when he asked it I knew it was he or some one acting for him who had attempted to mislead me about the time of the vessel’s departure.  I saw a chance to trap him, and asked: